


And I Like What I See

by fizzyblogic (phizzle)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Safer Sex, Strip Tease, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 19:00:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phizzle/pseuds/fizzyblogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amy finally manages to sleep with Rory, finds that she really really likes it when he strips, and eventually realises that maybe having a relationship wouldn't be so bad.</p><p>For the kink_bingo square "exposure/striptease".</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Like What I See

"Rory!" Amy shouts, pronouncing it _Roraaayyyyy_. She holds her arms out and envelopes him in a huge hug as soon as she makes it to the kitchen. "How does it feel to be old?"

It's Rory's twenty-third birthday, but she asks him the same question every year. "Oh ha ha," he rolls his eyes, just like every other year, but she can't help it if he insists on being so much older than is reasonable. Where 'reasonable' is 'her age', which of course it is.

"Aww, don't be a grumpus," she nuzzles him a bit, stepping away with full-body tingles. "I know you're doing something with the lads tonight, so I thought I'd come round now, bring you prezzies."

"Ooh, let's have them then." He rubs his hands together, and Amy laughs.

"You ungrateful git," she shoves him. "Isn't my company enough?"

"Of course it is," he backtracks automatically. Then he adds, "But presents don't insult me on a regular basis," and she punches him lightly on the arm.

"I do it out of love," she grins at him. "Come on, then," hefting a bag onto the table, "open them up, birthday boy."

He unwraps the Sex For Beginners book first, and the mortified look on his face is completely worth the risk. She laughs louder than she should, and he ends up shoving her gently and saying, "Come on, Amy, stop, it's not funny."

"Sorry. No, it's not, not funny at all." She does her best to compose herself. For a split second, she sees the way he's looking at her, and her breath catches in her throat. She stops laughing entirely. There's a silent beat, and then he looks away.

"Um." He grabs another of the presents. She only got him one joke present — that isn't a hint, no, it isn't at all, it's not that she wants to shag his brains out, that's not it _at all_ yesitis yesitis yesitis — so the next one he unwraps is a proper present. "Oh," he says, as it falls out of the paper. "Hey, it's that book I wanted. That one that looked really interesting in the shop."

"I knew you'd never get around to buying it, so I thought I'd save you the trouble," Amy smiles at him. He looks up at her, and something about it makes her heart skip a beat.

"That was ages ago. You remembered," he says, and she has to dissipate this.

"That's what best friends are for," she taps a loose fist awkwardly against his arm. It does the job, though, and he stops looking like he's about to work up the courage to kiss her. "Anyway, go on, open your other one." She hands him the last present.

"You spoil me," Rory beams at her, tearing the wrapping off. It's a shirt, in exactly his size, and just the right flattering colour. "It's lovely," he says, "thank you," and leans over to kiss her on the cheek.

They do it all the time, little affectionate platonic kisses and hugs, and she closes her eyes as his lips brush her skin. Breath catches, maybe for both of them, and then he moves away again and she says, "Well, you've got a party to go to," because it's nearly tea-time and she has to get home. They hug again as she's leaving, and she squeezes him just a fraction tighter than normal. "Happy birthday," she murmurs into his ear. Then lets go, and adds, "See you soon."

"Yeah," his voice trails off behind her. She walks home, swinging her arms happily, the evening beginning to darken everything. She passes the church, humming, almost skipping with every other step. She's trying not to run.

As soon as she gets to her garden, where no one else can see her, she hurtles herself at the front door, gets it open, throws herself up the stairs, and turns the shower on.

She picks a subtle, fruity shower gel, and lathers up. Which outfit, which one, oh shit, she really should have thought of this before, what if she's late? No, it's fine, she's got loads of time yet. Loads. She forces herself to relax, letting the hot water cascade down her back, washing her hair with the strawberry shampoo. When she steps out of the shower, she wraps herself in a huge dressing gown, ties a towel around her hair, pats her legs dry, and heads to her bedroom.

She rearranges the makeup on her dresser eight times, trying to decide on the right combination. Foundation, that's good — bronzer? Should she use bronzer? It's not summer, she looks great without it, it's fine, just foundation is fine. She wipes her face several times; once with pore-opening stuff, once with pore-cleansing stuff, once with pore-closing stuff. The liquid foundation, she decides, yes, it doesn't pong, it'll be fine.

She gets up and does a lap of the upstairs of the house, just to work off some nervous energy. Then she stands in front of her wardrobe and has a full-on panic for fifteen seconds. Not the nurse outfit, definitely not. The policewoman? The French maid? The sexy sailor? The devil girl, complete with horns? Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , this has to be perfect. Not tacky, just completely sexy. Something irresistible.

French maid. It's always a favourite, can't go wrong with a good French maid. Oh, shit, but what if it's too cliché? Shit, no, it has to be something genuine, something —

She takes the towel off and blow-dries her hair, just for something else to fucking do. Maybe she should go dressed as Catwoman. Fuck, why isn't this easy? Why can't this be a normal job, just pick at random and sashay in there and give the ballsy wink?

She closes her eyes, shoves her hand into the wardrobe, and grabs the first thing that it lands on. For a second she doesn't want to look, but then she does.

The sexy secretary. Right, then. She brushes her hair and ties it up, takes her dressing gown off and starts on her usual routine — pat every part of her body perfectly dry, make sure there are no stray hairs that the wax has missed, sexy underwear just for her, moisturiser that smells faintly of chocolate ( _I smell like a chocolate chip fruit salad_ , she thinks as she sniffs herself, _mmm, I'd eat me_ ), then the outfit — and starts on the makeup. She glances at the clock; there might be time for a quick something to eat, but she's not hungry, she'll eat when she's back.

She gets to Rob's house five minutes early. Gary answers the door, already quite merry, and ushers her inside. She waits in the hall as he announces, "Rory, there's someone here to see you," and a chorus of _Oooh_ s and catcalls start up. She unbuttons and drops the coat, and saunters into the room, hips swinging.

Wolf whistles emerge from every corner of the room. Rory is sitting in the middle, a lopsided crown on his head, grin slowly fading. "Amy, what — Gary? What's going on?"

"Lads," Amy smoulders at the room, "I'm going to borrow the birthday boy, if you don't mind."

Louder wolf whistles follow them through the room, Amy pulling Rory by the hand. Rob, Gary, Martin and Toby all clap Rory on the back and arms as he passes. Bottles and cups are raised in salute, accompanied by shouts of "Aye-aye!" and the occasional "Go on my son". It sounds like a football match. Amy briefly reconsiders heterosexuality.

Then she's in the hall with Rory, her coat pooled on the floor, and he falters, "What — what did — _how dare they_?"

"Rory," she cautions, but he shakes his head.

"No, no, they know we're friends. I mean, what are they _playing_ at —"

This isn't going to plan at all. " _Rory_ ," she snaps, instantly regretting it. He does shut up, though. "I don't mind."

"Yeah, well, you've been paid. I'm just getting humiliated." He looks so angry, Amy doesn't know what to do.

"Do you like the outfit?" She turns around and winks at him over her shoulder.

He doesn't answer. He just walks back into the front room, leaving her in the hall, bum to the door, mortified.

She picks up her coat, starts to put it on, and then thinks, _Fuck it. I'm a professional. I came here to do a job, and I'll sodding well do it._

She strides back into the room, head held high, and doesn't stop until she's in front of Rory. She waits until he's finished yelling at Gary, "What were you _thinking_ , you arse-headed fuck-witted _twat_ — _Yes_ , Amy, what is it?"

"I'm not finished with you." She packs a lot of smoulder into the words. "Now, the way I usually do it is, I give the lads a wiggle, snog the person I'm there to snog, and everyone cheers. But you're special. You get the best friend service." She pauses, to see if he'll fall into line.

"What's the best friend service?" he asks, no anger in it. There it is. Her wonderful Rory, who does what she says (up to a point). She starts tingling, but ignores it.

"The best friend service is privacy. All of you," she makes her voice as sharp and loud as she can, which is not an inconsiderable amount, "out."

A grumble goes around the room in a roll of thunder. "But —" Martin starts.

"But what? You want to watch? Find someone else to perv on," she throws at him. He opens his mouth to protest, but she arches one eyebrow and he follows the others out of the room. She's certain they'll listen at the door, so when they're all gone she says, "Here," and leads Rory to the other side of the room.

"Fuck, you're sexy," he breathes, like he can't stop himself. "I mean — I, er — shit." She should save him from this, but he might be about to say something flattering, and she needs a minute anyway. "You're, I mean, you know you're gorgeous, right? I mean _really_ gorgeous and —"

She saves him at last by saying, "Rory." He stops, nods, looks vaguely grateful. "Thanks," she adds, letting her voice soften, letting herself completely relax, because if they keep their voices down they won't be heard and she's going to kiss Rory. In about twenty seconds. "Nice to hear you think I'm sexy."

"I do," he murmurs, not meeting her eyes. "Er, like the outfit, I mean. And I do think you're sexy." Finally, eye contact. "Is that okay?"

Amy takes the clip out of her hair, letting it cascade over her shoulders in a move she _knows_ is completely clichéd yet completely hot. She steps closer to him, puts one hand gently on his chest. "Yeah," she says, and her voice isn't as husky as she wants it to be. She does sound sort of breathless, though, so that's something. "Yeah, it's okay."

She's thought about it for a long time, what it'd be like kissing Rory. She always thought she'd probably make the first move, be the one who leans in, but here, now, when she kisses him for real, they lean in at the same time. Meet in the middle. Amy's wearing raspberry flavoured lip gloss because she knows he likes raspberries. They're well-matched in height, no leaning down or up or stretching or anything. She thinks about these two facts in the fractions of a second before their lips meet, and then all she thinks about is how good it feels. Rory's lips slightly rough, but pleasantly so; for the first few seconds, they kiss with just lips, and Amy tingles all over. Then she opens her mouth and their arms go around each other, pull closer, and for an indeterminate amount of time they stand there, wrapped together, kissing with lips and tongues and soft presses of teeth. It's not an earth-shattering kiss, but it's a _good_ kiss, a really good kiss, the kind of kiss she never gives at work. The kind that turns her knees to jelly and leaves her with the urge to rub her thighs together just to get rid of some of the tension. Rory's hands move to the small of her back, and she makes pleased little noises. He groans, hands clenching (not fisting, he even knows not to rumple her costume, fuck why does he have to be so perfect) and she presses closer. He's hard against her leg. It takes a great effort not to throw him down on the floor. She curls her hands into fists in his hair, whimpers.

Then they pull apart, and Rory breathes, "Shit." Amy nods, resting her forehead against his.

"Come over to mine tomorrow night." She knows her tone makes it an order.

" _Fuck_ ," he whispers. "Yeah, yeah okay."

For a fleeting moment, she wonders if this is wise. But, she reasons to herself as they disentangle, if she doesn't shag him soon, she'll have to take out shares in Duracell.

When she gets to the door, she starts sauntering. Out in the hall, the lads are looking nonchalant, as if they weren't straining to listen. "Might want to give him a minute," she winks at them, picks up her coat, and walks out of the house.

Her legs are shaking when she gets home. She makes herself a snack, stares into space for a minute after eating it, then gets into bed and reaches for her favourite vibrator.

The next day trickles by, minute by minute. She cleans most of the house, just for something to do, then runs herself a bath and relaxes. She only allows herself ten minutes to decide on what to wear; something casual yet sexy, commanding and forward yet approachable. A miniskirt, some tights — no, stockings, why not blow his mind — a nice top that shows a bit of boob but not much. She curls some small sections of her hair, just to see how long they'll take to fall out. She gets some wine ready, though her plan is pretty much to jump him immediately.

She's just thinking about getting out some candles, despite the cheesiness, when there's a knock at the door. She checks; it's Rory. Reminding herself to wait until he's at least got his coat off, she opens the door. "Hi," she says.

"Hi," he echoes. "Can I come in?"

Fuck. He's had second thoughts. "Yeah, of course," she proceeds as normal, "that's the idea."

"Right." Rory steps inside, takes his coat off. He's wearing the shirt she gave him. The light glints off the pearl snap buttons, and she is overcome by a momentary need to hear the sound as she pulls them all open. "Listen, Amy, we need to talk."

"You look gorgeous in that," she says, because he does.

"Amy." He steps closer. "What is this?"

"Rory —"

"I know you don't ... _do_ relationships, I know. But I can't just," he reaches out and twines her hair between his fingers, "I can't have sex with you and then go back to how it was. I can't."

"Oh." She closes her eyes.

"Didn't you know?" He's almost whispering now.

"I don't know. I thought — I knew you fancied me, I just. Didn't know you ..." She stops talking, because she has no idea what exactly it is he feels for her. A crush? In love? Something in between?

"What about you?" he asks. He's moving slightly closer, bit by bit, and she inches closer too.

"What about me?"

"How do you feel about me?" He looks at her then, and her heart skips.

"I like you so much," she answers in a rush. "There's not — I'm not in love with you. But I might be falling." She's sort of helpless with this stuff.

"Might be?" he echoes, his entire face alight with hope.

"Maybe. Just a bit." She tilts her mouth up, close to his. "A tiny bit. Sort of."

He makes a small noise, and then they're kissing, and she has no idea if this will be worth risking the only person in this world she can trust, but maybe it will be. Right now, all she knows is that she wants to get Rory upstairs, pop open every button on his shirt, and ride him really really hard.

She pulls and yanks and stumbles backwards and then they're half-running up the stairs, tugging at each other. When they get to her bedroom, she pulls away from the kiss and says, "I want you to strip for me."

He blushes instantly, and it's oddly sexy. She sits on her bed, leans back on her elbows, and smiles enticingly at him.

"So um," he fiddles with his shirt buttons, "what should I do?"

"Take your clothes off. Don't bother doing it slowly, just — take them off." She bites her lip, drinking in the sight of him in her room. He pops the buttons that need popping, not aggressively or fast or anything, just ... like he has a lot of time. Well, he doesn't. "Get a move on," she grumbles, but he just smiles at her. He undoes his belt, not slowly but not fast _enough_ , and then inches his zipper down and — and —

She is so completely, totally turned on. He still has his shirt on, open all the way down, and she wants to bite his stomach. He slowly, _far_ too slowly drops his trousers to the ground and steps out of them. He almost ruins it by yanking his shoes and socks off, but he's bent over slightly and she can see his legs and they're good legs. Sexy legs. Seeing glimpses of his skin, and expanses of it, and denied by the clothes he still has on ... she bites her lip.

He lifts his shirt over his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor. His boxers come off slowly, bit by bit revealing his cock, and she's salivating and biting back whimpers. He swallows. "Was — was that okay?"

"Fuck yeah it was," she breathes. "Right," collecting herself, "my turn."

She takes the top off first, and not slowly. The bra proves fiddly, but not complicated once she stills her hands and tells herself to go slow and savour it. She drops the bra to the floor, taking in the look on Rory's face. The way his cock jumps. Biting her lip, she slowly takes off her skirt, and Rory groans, a long low sound.

He crumples onto the bed beside her, trailing fingertips over her thighs. "Wow," he whispers.

"I haven't finished yet," she whispers back, and he pulls his hand away. Watches her detach the suspenders, take off the belt, slowly roll each stocking down her leg. His pupils are blown to fuck and he's leaking precum by the time she's down to just panties. They're really nice panties, silky and sexy, and she eases them off too, feeling his eyes follow her movements.

He rolls on top of her when she's naked, tracing his hands over her breasts, her sides, her hips. She arches. "You're so beautiful," he whispers.

"Um — I need to grab a —" She motions towards the bedside cabinet.

"Oh — right. Yeah." He rolls off her again. She moves, stretches, reaching into the drawer, and feels his hand on her hip again, moving up and down her body. He plants a kiss on the curve of her back. She shivers.

His hands are shaking slightly, so she rolls the condom on, watching his lips part, his eyes close. She kisses him, rolls them over, slides down onto him. It's just right; the right angle, the right thickness, the right length, just _right_. He comes in two minutes, whispering _Sorry, fuck, sorry_ , until she leans down and shuts him up with a kiss.

She rolls off him, and he says, "I'll, um — do you want me to —"

"Have a minute to recover," she pats him on the hip. She'd been not far from close, but she closes her eyes and replays the sight of Rory's shirt falling to the ground, and tries not to squirm.

"Are you okay?" he asks, after a minute. Maybe she's failed her non-squirming attempts.

"Just," she bites her lip, "I was sort of — mmm." She wriggles, and his breath catches.

"Oh. Oh. Can I — Amy, is it all right if —"

" _Yes_ , of course it's all right," she rolls her eyes, but then his hand is on her thigh and her brain short-circuits. He kisses a line down her body, from her mouth to her shoulder to her breasts to her stomach and then she spreads her legs and he settles between them.

"I haven't really done this much," he mutters.

"So? If you get lost, I'll give you directions." Her eyes are closed, replaying his clothes coming off, over and over and over, and she feels his tongue on her clit and arches. He licks and laps in just about the right place — sometimes she needs pressure a little further down, a little further up, and she tilts to show him where to go. His shirt comes off again on her eyelids, his tongue works inside her tentatively, and she comes.

When the afterglow sets in, she opens her eyes. Rory has moved back to lie next to her, gazing down at her. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," he says, and kisses her. She likes the taste, licks at his tongue.

"You're not so bad yourself," she says, breathless, when the kiss breaks. He smiles against her mouth.

"Can this be a thing? A — a thing that we do?"

She cups his face in her hand. "Rory, are you asking to be friends with benefits?"

"If that's what you need this to be, then yeah." He moves his fingertips over her body, making her shiver, waking her clit. "If I don't get to do that again some time, I'll explode."

"How about doing that again right now?" She pulls him closer, wrapping one leg around his waist, and feels him start to harden.

~~*~~

The Doctor comes back, he is actually _really_ actually real, and he saves the world and then leaves again.

Amy doesn't sleep with Rory for two days after the Doctor's whirlwind visit. He was still her Raggedy Doctor, still extraordinary and bizarre and emitting strange gold things. Time travel, he says. To him, he really had only been gone for five minutes. She's still angry, and it's not fair to work that out on Rory, so she doesn't. She punches pillows, she cooks a lot, she watches films with Rory and rants at the slightest provocation. And then, on the third day, she wakes up and Rory isn't there and she's hit with it all at once: sometimes, when people leave, they come back. Sometimes, it's okay to trust someone.

If there's anyone she trusts, it's Rory. (And the Doctor, much to her annoyance.) She calculates when his shift will be over, how long he'll need to unwind, when she should go round. Then she realises that she knows exactly where he'll be at what time because he mentioned it once and she thought perhaps she'd surprise him at work with a hug, and maybe she might be sort of quite in love with him. Maybe it's time to tell him that.

She texts him, _Come round l8r? xx_ and a few hours later, he texts back, _Ok. ill need a drink after 2day_. She cleans a bit, has a leisurely soak in the bath, and is waiting with a nice meal and some wine by the time he knocks on the door.

He looks like he needs some serious comforting, so she wraps him in a hug, steers him into the kitchen, feeds him warm food, hands him a glass of wine, and leads him into the lounge. They settle on the sofa, talking about nothing in particular, and Rory leans his head on her shoulder. She kisses his hair.

There's a lull in the conversation, and Amy fills the silence with, "Rory, I've been thinking."

"Oh?" His voice is careful, and the atmosphere's changed.

"Not a bad thing," she hastily adds. "I was wondering if you wanted to make it official. Drop the sort-of. Be my boyfriend, actually and really."

"It's the Doctor, isn't it?" Rory asks. "I mean, yes, obviously, of course I do. But it is the Doctor, right?"

"Well, maybe sometimes some people come back, and maybe some people I can just _trust_ , and maybe being scared isn't so bad." She smiles at him.

"Do you trust me?" Rory asks, looking into her eyes like he'll find the meaning of life there if he searches hard enough.

"Yes." She kisses him.

"Do you love me?" His voice is quiet.

"Yes," she answers. "I love you, Rory."

He surges forward, mumbling, "I love you, Amy," and kisses her hard. And it feels right. Perfectly right.

"Take your clothes off for me," she breathes, and they stand and stumble and hurry up the stairs, into her room, for her favourite thing about sleeping with him. They stand in front of each other, breathing heavily, and he takes his clothes off piece by piece, slowly, _agonisingly_ slowly. Amy's breath quickens, her heart thuds, and she forces herself to just watch. Not touch herself. Not touch him. This, watching his naked body appear bit by bit, turns her on like nothing else. He's not even all the way out of his clothes before she breaks, can't bear it any more, and yanks him down onto the bed. She rolls a condom onto him as fast as is safe, while he pulls her underwear down. She wraps her legs around him, feeling him slide inside her, throws her head back, and pulls his shirt fully off him.

They're half-on half-off the bed, it's an awkward position to say the least, and getting his trousers off is ludicrously difficult, but Amy is so profoundly turned on, she doesn't care. It's the best sex they've ever had, pulling at each other's clothes, yanking and arching and moaning, and when she finally gets him naked, his hands are working at her clit and she comes. He buries his face in her neck, groaning, and comes a minute later.

They sit, perched partially on the bed, getting their breath back. "I don't know about you," Amy pants, "but I really, really enjoyed that. Let's always do that."

"Oh hell yes," Rory agrees, nuzzling into her neck. "My back's sort of killing me, though, could we —"

"Right, yes," and though she throbs with the loss, she extracts herself and they lie down, side by side. She settles against him and yawns. "Don't let me fall asleep without locking the door."

He kisses her hair. "What are boyfriends for?"


End file.
